


The Coming of the Giant Smith

by DictionaryWrites



Series: Marvel-Myth Fusion Tales [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Norse Religion & Lore
Genre: Angst, Bestiality, Crying, Depression, Forced Pregnancy, Pregnancy, Psychological Trauma, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 13:46:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4394249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the myth known as The Fortification of Asgard from Marvel Loki’s point of view. This is “the one with the horse”, so please note warnings for implications of non con bestiality, pregnancy and graphic depictions of violence. It is not a cute or sweet fic. It’s very awful.</p><p> ---</p><p>A giant smith comes to Asgard with so fine an offer it cannot be refused - his price is nonetheless steep, and perhaps not entirely worth the prize.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Coming of the Giant Smith

**Author's Note:**

> Loki is probably the equivalent of age 17 in terms of his maturity. Thor is likely the equivalent of 22.

 “Odin has called a meeting of the Gods!” comes the call from the entryway, and Loki looks up from his book, eyes flickering to Thor, who had just been finishing his studies and seems _delighted_ at the chance for a break. Loki has never attended a meeting of the Gods, so young is he, never having yet seen battle, and he watches Thor with a hint of jealousy weighting his chest as his brother stands and grasps for his cloak, drawing it with a flair about his shoulders.

Loki watches him go with a sigh on his lap, resigning himself to a few hours more of study as he waits for his brother to return and fill him in, but Thor turns, meeting Loki's gaze. Thor is older than Loki is – Loki has perhaps one or two more spurts of growth left in him, and he lacks Thor's broadness, despite being mature enough to bed a woman or go into battle. Well, _theoretically_ go into battle. He's proved well enough that he can bed a woman, but the latter is yet to be seen.

“Join us, Loki,” Thor says, tone strong, and Loki stares at him as the messenger in the corridor – the lady Sif, who is a warrior despite being smaller than Loki and a _woman_ to boot – looks ready to voice her protest, but Thor waves a broad hand and shoos away her concerns.

“Really?”

“Come, brother! We must be swift!”

Loki needs not telling twice.

He throws seiðr gracelessly behind him as he grabs at his own cloak and scrambles for the door, tripping over his feet as he does so, and Thor laughs, catching him by the arm before Loki can fall and drawing Loki with them down the corridor. They move quickly, out across the grounds and from the library into the main hall, where a long table has been laid out for the occasion.

Their father stands tall at the end of the table, seated in a beautiful throne of carved wood, and Mother stands beside him, her hand stroking his shoulder as it often does when Odin appears stressed. Up the table are others seating themselves – Freya, Idunn, Heimdall, Brunhilde and others in their high-backed chairs, and Loki is lacking one of his own. He hesitates at Thor's elbow, uncertain, but his mother steps forwards, putting out her hands and weaving him a chair to join Thor's, engraved with a dozen runes.

Loki _beams_ , despite the serious matter at hand, and he moves to settle in its seat, meeting the amused, exasperated and irritated gazes he receives in turn, pleased at being acknowledged as one of the _Gods_.

“An offer has been made to us,” Odin proclaims as Thor and Sif seat themselves, each straightening their backs (Loki mimics this posture immediately, and looks to his father with all the gravity he can muster), “A smith has come to Asgard – a smith of Jötunheimr. He has offered to build a mighty wall about Asgard, that no being might breach our defences with us unawares. He claims he might complete the work in a mere three seasons.” There is a pause, and Loki glances at the others around the table even as his father's words echo slightly in the cavernous room.

“His price?” the towering Heimdall asks, watching Loki's father with those startlingly golden eyes, and Loki breathes in, feeling the slightest bit _hot_ , as he's come to feel when he hears the low melody of the watcher's voice, come the most recent century or so. The question is well-asked, though, and Odin inclines his head in acknowledgement before he answers.

“He wishes for the sun, and for the moon.” Soft noises of protest echo about the table, glances of disapproval exchanged between Gods, and then Odin adds, “And Freya's hand in marriage.”

“ _No_ ,” Freya says cleanly, sharply, her voice cutting through the silence like a newly made knife, and with her beginning, the others begin to argue. Idunn agrees the price entirely too steep, but Brunhilde interrupts that they might simply not pay the giant's price once the work was done: Odin accuses her sharply of lacking in honour to break an oath so swiftly, and that the giant likely could not complete the work in such speed.

“He's a _giant_ , Odin, not an elf! No doubt he can indeed create such a wall in three seasons – and you must honour their oaths once they are made, even with _me_ as a prize. Thus why they should not be made.”

“What if-” Loki's tongue is moving before he can stop it, and his elders each go silent, looking at the youngest of them with expectation evident in their eyes. Loki is infamous as a trickster, and Sif's dark hair is the prime example in view, but no one can say he cannot be _ingenious_ , if he chooses. “What if we agreed to the giant's terms, but, steep as they are, only if he could complete his task in but one season? Stipulate he might take on only the aid of his horse, and surely he will be unable to offer the speed of construction he promises.” Freya looks at him, her red hair shifting about her pretty face, and she inclines her head.

Debate begins anew.

It takes time – the Gods speak with deliberation, carefully, and finally they agree. They agree to use _Loki's_ plan.

“Well done, brother!” Thor praises him brightly as they walk from the great hall to take a meal, and Loki smiles at him as he claps a great hand upon Loki's back, proud of himself and delighting in the warm smiles from both his brother and his parents: they will have a wall about their city soon, and without paying a penny in return.

\---

Loki's legs dangle from one of the tall watch towers of the palace, settled as he is on a window sill to watch the giant at work. He is indeed massive, so massive that Loki hesitates to draw near to him, despite being almost as tall as his brother, by now. The giant works with _prodigious_ speed, and they are halfway through the season – his horse is as giant as he himself, called Svaðilfari, and it is ridiculously fast, and intelligent too.

“Do you think he and his horse will finish their task, young Loki?” Fandral asks as he enters the watch tower, and Loki glances back at him before he looks out to mighty smith once more, his pink lips pressed together. He had thought himself clever when he had thought to include that the aid of the smith's horse would be the only aid he was allowed, but this horse is like no other, and it hauls bricks so large they might be mountains across the plains of Asgard with ease. The snow thick on the ground appeared to be no impediment,

“No,” Loki says, with confidence that is beginning to fade. “Of course not!” Fandral laughs, tapping his lower back in a friendly fashion.

“Come then, my lad! Thor insists we six shall have a tournament!” And, tearing his gaze away from the giant and trying to ignore the sinking worry in his chest, Loki follows after him.

\---

There are three days left of winter, and with the end of the season fast approaching, the completion of the giant smith's work are fast approaching also. He appears to be almost done, Loki notes anxiously as he moves to the meeting of the Gods called by his father not a few moments ago, and it is all his _fault_.

“ _ **You!**_ ” Freya hisses sharply as he enters the hall, and she has him by the neck before he can dodge away from her, her hand tight against his skin. He turns his skin hot in defiance, and she lets out a half scream, stumbling back with a bright, shining burn across the palm of her pretty hand.

“Touch me _not_ , Freya!” Loki snaps at her, and he draws his hand up as if to threaten any other God who might think to threaten him, even as he feels his blood turn cold with fear. “You forget that although my mind conceived the plan, it was not I who came to a consensus on its application.”

“The boy is correct,” Heimdall says lowly, but he is soon overruled.

“You will _fix_ this, Trickster!” Freya spits at him, and others clamour to join her, even as Loki stumbles back away from them.

“If you cannot mend the plan you offered, Loki, and we are forced to give this _Jötunn_ not only the sun and the moon, but the hand of Freya, he shall be gifted your head as a wedding gift,” Loki stares at his father, his blue eyes wide with fear even as Thor and Frigga whip their heads around to look at their king with horror, but Loki bows his head despite his anxieties and his mother and brother's coming protests. After all, if the sun and moon were taken away, the Nine Realms would forever be drowned in darkness, and if none of them can mend the situation, surely **he** must.

“Yes, my King,” he whispers, and tries to think of a way to fix the _mess_ he has involved himself in. He flees the hall and moves out into the city, drawing his cloak carefully over his features before drawing a second coat of magic to mask him entirely, melting from sight as swiftly and smoothly as frost melts in the sun.

The giant is hard at work, and he truly is gargantuan, at least four times Loki's own height, but Svaðilfari beside him is twice Loki's height himself, far larger than Mjeif, Thor's horse, or Sida, the horse Loki rides himself.

He watches the giant and the ferocious horse for some time, not so much as _blinking_ for fear he might miss some weakness, and he hears the giant speak to the horse in the tongue of the Jötnar, translated before it meets Loki's ears by the magic of the Allspeak. “I ache for a woman's touch, Svaðilfari,” the giant proclaims, patting the beast's flank as they walk together from the wall and into the snow-blanketed forests to the West in search of more stone to add to the wall's end piece: the horse gives a snort and a nod of his giant head, and Loki _knows_ it understood its master's words as well as Loki did himself.

They know not of the sorcerer in their wake as they walk, and Loki takes care to keep it that way. Might he murder this mighty giant? Never yet has he killed a man in a fight, least of all a _giant_ , and he is uncertain the daggers at his belt could pierce so thick and broad a skin. He glances, then, to the horse, and tries to think of the magic he might perform, _any_ magic--

And then the plan comes to his mind, and he smirks.

Loki allows magic to flood through him, seeping into his bones as he closes his eyes and concentrates as best he can, feeling his legs lengthen, his muscles thicken, his face alter as his clothes and daggers are faded into the ether. And there Loki stands, a mare with a white pelt dappled with the prettiest of soft, tan spots, and he knows the giant will not complete his work.

Loki lets out a soft whinny as he makes his way into the woods, and he sees the fearsome stallion's head _whip_ about, its wild eyes turning to view Loki where he stands in the winter moonlight – moonlight that, Loki reminds himself, will be lost if he cannot complete his task. Had the horse, after all, not agreed to its master's complaint of having no woman's touch? Are horses not as men are, in need of regular satiation, and ready to chase a female in order to be sated so?

And so Loki gives a flirtatious toss of his long mane, and begins to make his way further into the forest.

He hears the heavy drop of those thunderous hooves upon the frost covered ground, deafening even over the yells of the giant smith from farther afield, and if Loki were in possession of his own mouth he would laugh for triumph, for he knows now that the giant smith will not be able to complete his work in the time allotted.

Not without his equus aid.

Loki runs for hours upon hours, occasionally slowing to allow the monster behind him a glance of his tail, his legs, before he begins to gallop once more. They cross the plains at speed, and even as they run together, as the hours draw on further, and the sun comes out, and snow melts with the coming of spring in but a few more hours, Loki does not tire. He has his _mission_ , after all, and it cannot be forgotten – not unless he wants his head to be a wedding gift to a savage of Jötunheimr.

It is when the first flower blooms that Loki stops short, and he takes a few seconds to catch his breath, desperate to draw something into his lungs before he lets forth his magic, but even with that small break, he finds himself too fatigued, too exhausted, to draw upon his seiðr to transform himself to his own form.

And the fierce Svaðilfari yet advances.

Now, when Loki runs, it is not with a false flirtation, it's not with the coquettish head nods and shifts of hooves to draw forth the stallion's lust, but with desperation, with true _fear_. He runs, and he runs, but he is too tired, too tired to run further, too tired to **think** , and then he realizes he has run too far into a gorge, and that he can flee no further.

He cries out, desperately, as the stallion comes forth, and he wishes he had thought to match his own form for size, but he had _not_ , and he can't escape, can't use his magic, and even as he wails, he knows the stallion will ignore him.

Are horses not as men are, willing to ignore a cry of protest if it stands between their lust and its finish?

\---

It is Heimdall who finds him, weeks later.

The clearing about him is singed for the flames Loki had thrown out from his body, destroying all he could see for the sake of destroying _something_ , but that had been days ago, when Loki had still felt something. He feels nothing at all, now – not even relief, when he sees those boots of Heimdall's tread on the burnt ground.

Loki lies upon the floor, his eyes dull, his knees drawn to his chest and his form entirely still, his cloak drawn over his form. The watcher does not speak, because he knows what has happened, and has seen it as he sees everything; he moves forwards, and he reaches out, very slowly, and he grasps at Loki's body, lifting him with ease. Loki wants to _vomit_ for the sudden touch, but he doesn't, and instead he puts his arms tightly around the watcher's neck and holds him as he had when he had been a child, playing hide and seek from his mother and father with such strong illusions that only Heimdall could find him, and he knew of the scolding his father would give him once he was brought to the throne.

He will receive praise now, instead of ire, but he knows the delicacy will taste of ashes in his mouth.

“Your belly is swollen,” Heimdall murmurs as they draw close to the city, and Loki looks over the watcher's shoulder, with neither triumph or excitement, at the scattered pieces of dried, blue flesh and white skull littering the floor about them. No doubt Thor had offered Mjölnir to the giant's head as a prize for his late finish.

“I know,” Loki answers dully. Heimdall says nothing more.

Loki smacks the guard that tries to bring him to the throne room to greet his father, and the second is thrown so hard against the wall Loki hears his _bones_ crack. “Send Odin to _me!”_ Loki orders the third, and he seems too scared of the young prince's ire to protest. Loki ignores Thor when he tries to catch Loki by the arm, and he slams his chamber door in his mother's face before she can come inside.

Loki turns every tap in his bathroom to its full, and then he puts his head in his hands and begins to weep, body racked with every sob. When Odin comes to see him, radiating a cold fury at being **ordered** so by his son, Loki is sunk deeply into a bath, steam rising thickly from the water and to the ceiling.

“ _Loki_ ,” Odin hisses lowly, but before he can go on Loki stands, naked for the bathwater, and his belly has a curve to it, a curve that makes Loki want to crumble into _dust_. Odin draws in a breath, and his expression softens, fury turning to something _worse_. His father pities him.

“I drew the horse Svaðilfari away.” Loki says without emotion, his eyes glassy and red. “I dragged its heart from its chest and painted the walls of the gorge with its blood.” A pause, and then, “Once I could use my magic.”

“Take to your bath, Loki,” Odin says, and Loki does: despite himself, despite wanting to appear strong before his father, he begins to sob once more. His father moves to crouch behind him, and when he draws a gentle hand through Loki's hair, he begins to weep yet louder, putting his head upon his father's knee and crying like a babe. “You will be alright, my son. You've served Asgard well.”

Loki's throat is too thick with tears to respond, and instead, he closes his eyes and stews in his bathwater.

\---

“Join us, Loki,” Thor proclaims as he enters Loki's chambers, throwing open his curtains and flooding the room with afternoon light. From his bed, laid on his belly with his face buried in a pillow, Loki does not move. He watches Fandral and Sif waver in the doorway before both stumbling forwards, having been shoved by the sudden push of Volstagg's clumsy chest. Sidestepping the lion beside him, Hogun moves into the room with more grace, but with no such levity.

Loki could stand to never hear those three words come from his brother's mouth again.

“No, Thor.” Loki says, and Thor **huffs**. Loki's every limb hurts, for he has given birth not a week previous to a child he was not fit to bear, and even the barest shift is agony.

“Come, brother! It has been months since your embarrassment at the table of the Gods, and did you not prove yourself redeemed, having drawn that _stupid_ stallion to follow a mare?” _Was it truly the stallion that proved stupid?_ Loki asks himself. _I think not_. “Besides, you ought see the foal the mare bore Svaðilfari – the thing has eight legs!”

“Mm,” Loki replies, and tries to ignore the _heartache_ in his chest for a child that is his own, and yet will never be his son. He wants to weep. He wants to die. He wants to rip out his father's chest as he had ripped out Svaðilfari's, and paint the walls of Asgard with the Allfather's blood, but he knows that Odin had snatched Sleipnir from Loki's breast not to be cruel to him, but to save him.

It makes the sour taste in Loki's mouth no sweeter.

“Oh, brother, do not _sulk_ -”Thor says, and he grabs at Loki's ankle where it peeks out from under the bedclothes, and Loki lets out such a loud and _**piercing**_ scream at the sudden touch that Thor lets him go out of surprise, even as Loki sits up with a shake to his form. “Loki?” Thor asks, displaying a real _concern_ , and Loki wishes to crawl into the ground and _die_ there. He does not want Thor to know, does not want to _tell_ , but if Thor knows something is really wrong with him, he will ask until the horrid tale is shared. “Loki, brother-”

“I'm not _dressed_ , Thor,” Loki lies, drawing his sheets about himself and giving a significant look from Thor to the Warriors Four, and Thor laughs. Loki does his best not to tremble as they watch him, and he keeps up a mask of good humour.

“Oh, spare us your modesty, brother – Sif knows you to be no _charm_ beneath those bedclothes.”

“Who says I meant Sif?” Loki asks dryly, and Sif and Volstagg laugh, a pretty peal beside a lion's hearty roar, as Fandral elbows Hogun suggestively in the side and Hogun frowns at him. “Leave me one minute, and I shall join you. I need only my armour.”

The door shuts closed behind them, and for a few moments Loki remains still on his bed, drawing magic about him to fix his hair, his dirty fingernails, his tired eyes. He stands, with effort, and he looks to the window Thor had bared to his sight. In the court yard, Mjeif dances with the tiny Sleipnir, teaching him to walk upon his many legs.

Loki throws the curtains shut before he stalks from his bedroom and follows his brother and the others from the palace. His body hurts, his heart hurts more, but he cannot hide from his brother if he wishes to hide his secret too.

And so he goes. 


End file.
